


If I Want To

by Saltrova



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gossip, House Stark, Jealousy, Sibling Rivalry, Stark Family, Winterfell, book canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2018-11-03 10:55:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 16,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10965783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saltrova/pseuds/Saltrova
Summary: Their lady mother said, they were both blood of her blood. And their lord father said, even though they were as different as the sun and moon, the same blood flowed through both their hearts, and therefore they needed each other. But it simply felt as if they were two strangers inhabiting the same castle rather than sisters.





	1. Arya

_Arya Horseface!_ That one _hurt._ _Arya Underfoot!_ That one was better. Although it was the first one that assaulted her ears. Escaping between giggles, carried by the breeze. Hurtful words whispered by the two girls with their heads bowed together, sharing giggles, secrets, and sneaky taunts aimed at Arya.

She remained hidden behind the barrel, not really sure why she was hiding, her toes digging into the dirt. Her thighs were aching and she wanted to get up and leave. But her body refused to cooperate.

They were aware of her presence. She just knew it. So hastily had she crouched behind the barrel. Her head was sure to be peeking over the top, easy for them to spot. Arya sighed in annoyance. She usually wasn't such a poor hider.

Her body stiffened as the beautiful girl and the pretty girl continued to whisper and giggle. _Why won't Septa Mordane scold them?_ She was always quick to catch all of Arya's misbehavior and scold her soundly for them.

"She's always so _dirty_ ," the pretty one's voice was full of gleeful disdain.

"Mother doesn't even _understand_ her," the beautiful one's voice was soft and gentle as the summer breeze. 

They burst into a fresh bout of giggles and Arya's lip curled. Her fists balling up as she furiously blinked away sudden tears that burned her eyes and blurred her vision. Oh how she hated them. All snooty and haughty. Rotten and mean! Her breathing had quickened from her anger and she wished that she wasn't affected by their words.

Sansa was the perfect little lady, but at the same time she could be so horrid to Arya. But no one ever saw that. All everyone ever noticed was the fact that Arya's hair was always tangled. Her face always dirty. And her clothing always torn.

_I'll run around if I want to,_ she thought fiercely, jutting her chin out.

_And I'll play with Mycah if I want to. He's a better friend than you two!_

She wanted to tell them that they were awful. All they ever did was gossip, call her names, and look down on her commoner friends.

Arya glanced down at her wooden sword that had fallen to the ground, wishing that she could wield it against the words continuing to flow towards her. Cut away the sounds of their laughter and with one strike loosen the tightness in her chest.

She could still remember the joy that had swelled her heart as she battled with Jon earlier. Swinging and hacking her wooden sword wildly, but Jon had only laughed in glee, mussing up her hair before twisting out of reach.

She'd had so much fun, barely able to contain her laughter. And Jon had engaged her in battle until she'd grown tired and sank down on the ground to rest.

He'd grinned down at her, "good job, little sister." His eyes that looked so much like her own had been full of pride.

Arya smiled as the thought of Jon effectively melted away the constriction in her chest.

She peeked back at the two girls, before picking up her sword and getting to her feet; no longer caring if they saw her. She whirled away, swinging her sword as she headed towards the practice yard to find another opponent to battle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by Arya's feeling of utter isolation after Mycah died and she was looking around the table thinking of how not one person cared. She missed her brothers while Sansa, the only sibling that she had in King's Landing, refused to speak to her.
> 
> **This chapter was ORIGINALLY an Arya POV ONE SHOT**


	2. Sansa

Sansa could feel the tears running down her cheeks in rivulets as she clutched her ruined dress. The horrid brat that was her stupid sister had stolen her favorite dress and buried it in dung. How Sansa had screamed when she found her beloved dress. 

When everyone had come running, Arya had at least possessed the good grace to looked shamefaced. Arya had been banished to her chamber for the remainder of the day. But Sansa thought she ought to be forced to stay in the godswood all day praying for forgiveness for the grave sin that she had committed. 

To ruin such a splendid dress made of the finest silk. Sewn so painstakingly just for her. The very thought of it sent Sansa into a fresh bout of tears.

Her poor lady mother to have been forced to carry such a little monster for nine moons. A disgrace was what Arya was. She was no lady at all. She was dirty and smelly. And she surrounded herself with the most embarrassing people. Especially that _dirty_ butcher’s boy who always smelled of rotten meat.

Mother had said the dress would put any other to shame. Even those worn by proper southron ladies living in court. Mother would know. Born and raised in the south before she came to live at Winterfell.

How Sansa envied the fact that her lady mother had been able to experience the south and live there. A place that Sansa could only _dream_ about and picture when she listened to the beautiful songs and thrilling stories. She loved to hear about gallant knights who fought so bravely as they saved fair maidens before falling in love and living happily ever after. Much different than the frightening stories told by Old Nan. And better too.

Only her dearest friend Jeyne Poole understood how _awful_ it was to be stuck up here in the North. Surrounded by cold and snow. While the life that they were meant to live in the south passed them by.

“I would positively _die_ if I can’t visit the capital at least once!” Jeyne had expressed last night as Sansa nodded in approval and shared sorrow.

Sansa always asked her father when they would be able to go south but he never gave her a proper answer.

“The North, Sansa. The North is where you belong,” he always replied. 

_I don’t belong here,_ she would think, wrinkling up her nose.

Mother didn’t either. Mother still kept to her southron ways and prayed to The Seven. Father even had a sept built for her so that she could worship her gods. 

Sansa full heartedly embraced the seven gods. She prayed to the Mother Above everyday that a gallant knight would ride into Winterfell and sweep her away. It would be just like the songs. The sweetest one.


	3. Arya

Arya didn’t care for womanly arts as Septa Mordane called them, she hated sewing with all her heart. Who wanted to be stuck doing something as mundane as sewing when there were adventures to be had outside. Woods to be explored, battles to be fought, babies to be held, cats to be chased, berries to be picked and especially flowers. The flowers that Arya and Mycah tended to pick weren’t the prettiest ones, they often ended up muddy and hardly worth the effort, but it was the thought that counted. 

And Arya felt so brave wadding through the stagnant water, avoiding the lizard lions that populated it, keeping an eye out for snakes, moving carefully with her breath held until she finally plucked an acceptable amount of flowers and held them secured in her sweaty grasp before scurrying back to dry, safe land. Mycah had sprung up to help her once, when she accidentally stepped into one of the camouflaged quicksand which nearly swallowed her leg. Although she had been scared at the moment, by the time Mycah had pulled her to safety, she had been grinning her toothy grin, declaring what an adventure it was even as her heart raced in her chest.

Mycah was thirteen and she always had the best adventures with him. When Jon was preoccupied with his studying and training, Mycah was always available for a mischievous feat. He didn’t mind if she got underfoot or if her face was a little long, or her smile reminiscent of a horse. He didn’t neigh at her like Jeyne Poole. Or call her horseface like Sansa. He didn’t look at her with pity as he hung on to Sansa’s every word like Beth Cassel. To him, she was just Arya. His fierce, daring friend. 

_He’s like Jon,_ Arya thought. _He likes me for_ me.

When Arya arrived back at Winterfell’s doors, she was immediately directed to the tower room for needlework with the septa. Arya had hoped to have time to sneak some flowers to her lady mother before cleaning up and surrendering herself to the required torturous time under Septa Mordane’s reproachful gaze as she watched Arya fumble along clumsily with her needle. 

“An impossible task to turn you into a lady,” the septa had once exclaimed after Arya threw her stitching down in frustration before jumping up and kicking the leg of a chair. 

But now with no other choice, Arya slowly dragged her feet as she climbed the steps to the tower. When she apprehensively stepped into the tower room, Arya found that Septa Mordane had stepped out, much to her relief. If the septa had caught sight of her with her muddy dress, Arya would have been on the receiving end of a blistering scolding. Wondering if she still had time to hand the now limp flowers in her hand to Mother and wash up a bit, Arya quickly grabbed the door handle and started to open the door. 

“You’re not supposed to leave,” Sansa’s voice immediately broke through the quiet. 

Arya barely stifled a groan as she turned towards her nosy sister. Sansa was glowing as usual, her auburn hair brushed and gleaming, her gown tidy and smooth, the stitches in her lap were as beautiful as her blue eyes. Arya scowled. “I’ll be back before the septa returns.”

But Sansa barely acknowledged her words as her gaze focused on Arya’s muddy appearance. “Why are you so muddy? Gods be true, Arya, even the seven gods couldn’t keep you clean if they tried.” 

The two girls stationed close to Sansa burst into giggles and Arya glared at all three of them. She had the best time picking wildflowers with Mycah and chasing around with the common children. And she wasn’t going to let any of them ruin it. Who cares if her hair was tangled, her dress and fingernails caked with mud, her knee bleeding, and her face smudged? She had the most splendid time. Sansa was just disgusted because Arya’s idea of fun didn’t include stupid songs about helpless fair maidens, wearing pretty dresses that you couldn’t have fun in, or engaging in silly gossip while eating lemon cakes.

“You never like splendid things,” Sansa sniffed as if to prove her point.

“I had a splendid time,” Arya disagreed. “Mycah and I picked so many flowers. We handed them out to people as we walked home.”

Sansa’s only response was to roll her eyes.

“I bet if a knight handed you a flower you would swoon over it,” Arya snapped annoyed.

“The knight of flowers would hand me a beautiful red _rose_ when he crowns me his queen of beauty. Not ragged infected flowers picked from mud and half drowned in filthy water.” Sansa sighed dreamily. “He will be ever so brave and handsome and gallant.”

“Would you like a flower?” Arya made her voice sweet and innocent as she started towards her sister. Sansa jerked away as Arya approached her and held out the wild flowers. “Here, queen of beauty,” Arya mocked her haughty sister.

Sansa shrieked. “Get that away from me! I don’t want rashes.” 

They both remembered the time Arya had broken out in bumpy welts, rashes and splotches from head to toe after picking purple flowers that turned out to be poison kisses.

Arya turned away from her sister and walked back to the door, throwing it open and firmly shutting it behind her before hurrying down the steps; escaping to freedom, if only for a short while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Go ahead, call me all the names you want,” Sansa said airily. “You won’t dare when I’m married to Joffrey. You’ll have to bow to me and call me **Your Grace**." ............  
>  “You have juice on your face, **Your Grace** ,” Arya said.
> 
> Mocking Arya is mocking :D


	4. Sansa

Sansa was still appalled at Arya’s daring to step into the tower room disheveled and caked in mud. Perhaps if the good septa had been there to witness it, she might have finally been able to convince Father to put an end to Arya’s wild ways.

 _If only Father would not encourage her so._ Their lord father didn’t exactly give his approval, but _still,_ he accepted the flowers that Arya tended to bestow on him as she stood all muddy and dirty, grinning her horsey grin. And to Arya’s thick skull, that was a sign of permission to continue on in her ways.

Beth Cassel was of age with her sister and she behaved with far more grace and dignity than Arya ever could and Beth wasn’t even a true highborn lady.

It shamed Sansa so, witnessing Arya carry on all willful and wild as if she were a lowly common person. Why couldn’t the Mother have granted her a sweet and delicate sister? Sansa would have liked that ever so much. For the life of her, she couldn’t understand why Beth Cassel, a lesser born, was more of a proper lady than Arya.

“Your father’s a dear friend of the king?” little Beth squealed. Sansa had just finished telling the story of how Father and King Robert Baratheon grew up together in the Vale under the guardianship of Jon Arryn. “Oh Sansa, what if the king requests for you to marry the prince? You could be _queen_ someday!” Beth was absolutely beside herself, overcome with the possibility of the girl she idolized becoming royalty.

Sansa blushed prettily, although she secretly wished it herself. “Beth, I don’t think it will happen, but if it did, I would invite you and your father to court when we have our tourneys. You will sit with honor in the high seats among the great ladies.”

Beth nearly fainted, she clapped her hands excitedly as she squealed, “I wish it would happen with all of my heart.”

“Me too,” Sansa murmured.

“What will you do when you’re queen?” Jeyne asked.

“Jeyne, I will have you at court too. You’re my dearest friend. We will spend plenty of time together when I’m not busy doing my queenly duties. I will even make it so you’re able to marry a proper high lord. If I approve it, then no one would mind that your father is simply a steward.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Sansa spotted Robb, Arya, and Jon Snow drawing close. They didn’t disturb the group of gossiping girls, choosing to settle nearby, engaged in their own conversation.

Beth gasped. “Wouldn’t it be so gallant if the prince fought in the tourney and then handed you a rose after he won?”

“Yes, Beth, it would,” Sansa agreed.

“She thinks she will be crowned the queen of beauty,” Sansa heard Arya snicker, leaning close to Jon Snow.

“Princes can’t fight,” Jon Snow said. “They’re too sheltered.”

Sansa did not like being interrupted, especially by the bastard, and she made her displeasure known. “You shan’t be wanted, bastard,” she told him fervently.

Jon Snow went quiet as his face turned red but Arya jumped up, her face dark as thunder. “No gallant knight or prince would ever marry you!” Arya fumed furiously. “A proper knight would never put up with your simpering. Only a craven would. A craven would never care what a bore you are! And you’ll probably run him poor buying all of your stupid dresses and silks. Everyone knows that you don’t have a head for figures. Or anything that _really_ matters!”

“Gods be true, Arya!” Sansa snapped furiously, “you’re more like a bastard than a lady. No wonder Jon Snow likes you so much. You both lack the necessary manners to be around proper lords and ladies!”

Sansa stormed out of the room, the humiliation heating her face, only cooling once she had settled on her bed with Lady dutifully cuddling at her side and licking her face. “I shouldn’t have lost my temper in front of everyone. It wasn’t proper,” she admitted to Lady.

But Arya infuriated her so! She couldn’t ever just be good. It would have been better if Arya was born a bastard like Jon Snow, Sansa decided. Even that would have been more bearable than having a trueborn sister who behaved so disgracefully.

_I would have liked a sister like Jeyne, but Jeyne’s only a steward’s daughter._


	5. Arya

The only acknowledgment that Arya and Sansa spared one another were dark scowls as they broke their fast with the rest of the family the following morn. 

Father noticed, and sighed one of his weary sighs that always made the girls feel ashamed of their bickering, until something else came about to raise their ire at one another.

“What now?” Mother asked, taking in their dark scowls.

“Arya entered the tower room all muddy and improper,” Sansa rushed to inform their lady mother. “She picked one of those wild flowers again. The ones that caused her to get rashes before.”

“Sansa was being rotten to Jon,” Arya said as she turned her big grey eyes to their father. “I didn’t like the way she spoke to him. He’s our brother and I love him so.”

Mother’s eyes hardened and her jaw set. “Arya,” she scolded her youngest daughter. “You mustn’t squabble with your sister over a bastard boy.”

Sansa smoothed her hair, her head lifting as their mother took her side.

“Jon is my brother,” Arya’s voice was loud and stubborn. Mother and Sansa were proper ladies who turned their noses down at bastards. But Arya was no lady. And she would never turn her back on Jon.

“That’s enough,” their lord father spoke, his voice carrying, curt and hard. 

Arya bit her lip, wishing that Father would defend Jon against Sansa and Mother. She was itching to finish eating so that she could find him and give him a big hug. Jon loved her best in this world, she knew because he told her often.

“The endless fighting between you two must cease.” Father’s brows were furrowed as he looked between the two warring girls, before turning to the eldest. “Arya is your sister and you two must act as such. You may bear the looks of House Tully of Riverrun, but you are Winterfell’s daughter.”

"What about me?” Arya demanded, scowling at Sansa’s pout.

Father’s anger seemed to recede, giving way to a small chuckle. “Dear one, no one can ever deny that you are of the North.” 

Arya beamed before turning her focus to her food, finally willing to feed her empty stomach.

Once her plate was empty, she stood up so gracefully that Septa Mordane might have wept, and asked for her sister’s pardon. “It was wrong of me to shout at you,” Arya said, feeling generous. Father’s nod of approval and Mother’s surprised but pleased smile, caused the upward curve of her mouth to rise a tad higher. 

Sansa not wanting to be outdone, smiled sweetly at her. “I must also beg your pardon. I shouldn’t have behaved so atrociously,” she murmured soft and demure.

Arya dipped a quick curtsy, ignoring the shocked silence, before she turned and sprinted out of the Great Hall, Robb’s choked laughter trailing after her. She could only attempt to be a lady for so long.

The afternoon found her entering the crypts, eager to explore. She could spend hours playing come-into-my-castle and monsters and maidens in the crypts among the stone kings. They sat on their stone thrones watching her silently, but Arya didn’t mind. 

Sansa did though, and steadfastly refused to enter the crypts and play with Arya.

While Sansa was frightened of the crypts, Arya loved it. Sometimes when Sansa was being particularly snooty, Arya took great joy in sneaking a treasured brush or doll and hiding it behind the seat of one of the stone kings. Arya had even boldly told Sansa where to retrieve her beloved possession once, but she had been too craven and had cried and run off to tattle and get Arya into trouble. It was always like Sansa to cry and ruin things.

Arya could only remember her sister entering the crypts once, when Robb and Jon had played a trick on their younger siblings. 

Sansa had cried even then. 

As if her thoughts had conjured her up, Arya heard Sansa’s voice calling her from far off, near the entrance of the crypts. She tried to ignore her, but her sister persisted.

Arya finally sighed annoyed, leaving the crypts and climbing the twisting steps to join her sister at ground level. “What are you scared for? Nothing is going to jump out at you.”

But Sansa merely shuddered as she eyed the crypts warily. “Father said we must spend time together.” Her nose was wrinkled in distaste at her father’s order.

“Come and play with me in the crypts,” Arya suggested casually, already knowing her sister’s answer.

“No,” Sansa immediately replied. “Why don’t we go inside and eat lemon cakes and practice dancing or singing. We can even write some poetry if it please you.”

“I’d rather go riding in the wolfswood if we must spend time together,” Arya said, but Sansa was already opening her mouth to refuse.

 _We have absolutely nothing in common other than our blood,_ Arya realized, as she often did when her and Sansa were disagreeing. Suddenly anxious to avoid an argument before it started, she quickly dropped to her knees, picking up a bug that had been slowly crawling along. “Do you dare me?” she questioned, a mischievous grin spreading across her face. 

Sansa’s eyes widened as she backed away, and that was all the encouragement that Arya needed as she plopped the bug into her mouth.

Sansa squealed. 

It was a shrill sound that caused Arya’s grin to grow wider in delight. 

Sansa turned and fled, disappearing between the armory and the guards hall as she distanced herself from the crypts. 

Even her run was dainty, Arya noted with dull amusement. She looked down at the remaining bugs that continued crawling about, seemingly unaware of the fate of one of their friends.

 _I’ll eat a bug if I want to._

An unbidden giggle escaped her and she quickly clamped a hand over her mouth, lest Sansa hear her even from far away.

Remembering that Sansa had run off a while ago and knowing that her sister had a knack for tattling, Arya stood up and dusted the knees of her starched skirts, before scampering away to the nearby armory.

She found Jon balanced on the sill of the covered bridge’s window. The bridge connected the armory and the Great Keep, making it easier to travel between the two from within the castle walls. “Why didn’t you break fast with us?” she asked, hopping up to sit beside him.

“I woke up earlier. I sneaked some food from the kitchens,” Jon admitted, pulling her in for a hug and a light kiss on the forehead.

“Not lemon cakes?” Arya asked with a straight face.

Jon laughed. “No.”

She beamed at his laughter, the sound like music to her ears. “I ate a bug,” Arya admitted, when his laughter faded.

Jon shot her an amused look. “Why did you do that for?” He didn’t seem disgusted, only interested. 

“I wanted to make Sansa squeal. It was funny. I think she ran to tell but I left before anyone found me.” Arya felt warm and brave as Jon’s eyes widened at her daring.

“You’re a silly one,” he said with warm affection.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is choppy, but I wanted to get it uploaded because the story was feeling abandoned.


	6. Sansa

Needlework had concluded, so Sansa and her companions settled for sitting in the courtyard, watching the sparring taking place in the practice yard while they giggled, whispered secrets, and shared snatches of gossip that they had overheard, all while snacking on lemon cakes that melted sweetly on their tongues.

“Father said even great warriors start off as green boys with two left feet and straw for arms,” Beth whispered in a hushed breath as one of the drilling boys lunged forward with his wooden sword. Sansa’s giggle sounded through the air, soft and pretty, and Beth gazed at her in wonder. 

Jeyne beamed as she always did, when others were captivated by her dear friend, as if she were responsible for bestowing Sansa with her beauty and charm. 

A winter rose had been tucked into the eldest Stark daughter’s auburn locks, and she looked a vision as the frosty blue flower deepened the effect of her Tully blue eyes. Her ladylike demeanor at the tender age of eleven was a source of pride for her lady mother and septa.

“I bet Robb will win,” sighed Beth, her voice filled with eight-year-old adoration, as two older boys replaced the previous younger boys in the training yard. 

“Robb would have made such a good knight. He’s beautiful and brave like a hero in a song. But being the Lord of Winterfell is just as important,” Jeyne voiced, agreeing with Beth’s sentiments.

Sansa hummed as she listened to the girls giggle and fawn over her brother. She felt a swell of pride as her eyes landed on her big brother as he drilled. He was handsome, brave, and gallant. Quick with a smile and charming with ladies.

He wasn’t a knight, it was true, as knights were anointed with holy oil in a sept after standing vigil before The Seven and taking their vows— and despite his Tully coloring, Robb was a Northerner down to his bones, and stuck fast and true to the Old Gods of the Forest —but none the less, Sansa saw him as a knight in all but name; even though she knew that Robb would scoff at the thought of being called a knight. He took his position as Winterfell’s future lord very seriously, and could already wear a Lord’s Face as convincing as Father’s. ‘Robb the Lord’ Bran called it.

Bran on the other hand, wanted to be a knight. He gobbled up stories about the fierce knights of the Kingsguard of the olden days and new ones alike; like Prince Aemon the Dragon Knight, Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, Ser Erryk and Ser Arryk who were forever remembered in the infamous Dance of Dragons, and Ser Barristion the Bold, one of the current finest swords in all the realm, and more, much more. 

Like her, Bran often dreamed about living in the red castle in King’s Landing. His eyes would light up whenever he spoke of how the Dragonlords had built it, starting with Maegor the Cruel. Excitedly, Bran had declared that he would go on a hunt with Arya under the Red Keep, to find the secret passages and tunnels that led to unknown exists and secret rooms. 

_“That’s the only reason I’ll ever go to King’s Landing,” Arya had sniffed. “So I could find the secret tunnels. Did you know that Maegor the Cruel had all the builders slaughtered? That way he could ensure that only the Targaryens knew about the secret passages. It didn’t work out.” Her sister shrugged nonchalantly._

It was just like Arya to only show interest in the unpleasant things, such as the dark dreadful dungeons, dragon heads, and the ghosts that Old Nan claimed haunted the Red Keep.

Sansa decided, if she married the crown prince and became queen some day, Bran could become one of her Kingsguard. She could imagine him standing tall and proud in his white armor, with his auburn hair gleaming under the hot sun of the capital. It was a life that they both dreamed of but could scarcely dare to imagine. Sansa would pick the most gallant knights in all of the kingdom as her sworn swords. Beautiful and brave. 

Hooting from the training yard caught Sansa’s attention, drawing her eyes back to the action playing out. Her gaze focused on the two opponents engaged in a fierce competition; one with a head of red-brown auburn locks, the other with a head full of brown hair. The two were studying each other between strikes—even though after years of being each others training partner since they were able to walk, there was little that they did not know about the other.

Sometimes Robb would try to distract Jon Snow by laughing and hooting, but their half brother always remained silent and intent, never letting his attention waiver. 

They were of an age, yet so very different. While Robb was fair, muscular, strong and fast; Jon Snow was darker in coloring, slender, graceful, and quick. The two danced and clashed, while Theon Greyjoy yelled his support of Robb.

Sansa studied her bastard half brother’s focused and determined expression— which was not far from his usual brooding and sullen disposition —and couldn’t picture him as a knight. Perhaps if he went to the Wall like Mother sometimes suggested to Father, then even her half brother could be a knight of sorts. After all, in the songs, men that dedicated themselves to the Wall were called the black _knights_ of the Wall. Plus Uncle Benjen was also a black brother of the Night's Watch, so it couldn’t _truly_ be awful, Sansa reasoned. 

Jon Snow was better at swords than Robb, she noted as the sparring between her brother and half brother continued. Mother wouldn’t like that. By the time their match was over, Jon Snow had cornered Robb into yielding more times than Sansa could count. But Robb didn’t look upset about it. The two boys laughed and ribbed each other good-naturedly once the mock combat was over, and Theon Greyjoy strolled over to them, a cocky grin already in place.

Her father’s ward was handsome with his black hair, but Sansa was indifferent to him. Mother had made it known that she didn’t view him worthy enough to ever be considered as a potential suitor for Sansa when she was of age. 

The Greyjoy had been staying in Winterfell since the age of ten, and Robb seemed to admire him, but her bastard half brother seemed to resent the Greyjoy ward, and tensed up whenever he drew near.

Theon’s ever present smirk was stretched across his lips as he looked on at the younger boys who were playfully shoving each other. 

_What do you know that I don’t know?_ His expression made her want to ask. Sansa hated being excluded from secrets. 

Lady perked up beside her and Sansa stroked a gentle hand down her fur just as a blur of grey woolen dress with protruding skinny legs followed by a faithful direwolf sped past her, the loud whoops of her sister accompanying the blur.

Sansa’s spine stiffened in displeasure before she bent down to kiss Lady’s nose. “At least _you’re_ well behaved,” she murmured to her gentle companion. The wolf’s golden eyes stared back at her with devotion, before her tongue shot out to gently lick Sansa’s cheek. Sansa giggled and gave the wolf another kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that Theon was a hostage and not a ward, but that’s what Bran saw him as and the other Stark kids too, I think.
> 
> P.S. My writing is a little rusty, so I am truly sorry if this doesn't flow as well as it could.


	7. Arya

“The Titans’ eyes would burn as if his eyes were a pit that had been set aflame by a lit torch.” 

Arya shifted her body towards Sansa, as Old Nan’s words caused the shadows beyond the candle’s reach to grow larger.

“And when he moved, the shadow that he cast would bring about a darkness as terrifying as the long night. The groans of the rocks that formed his body blended with the moans and cries of his victims before he smashed them into the ground, leaving nothing more than a deep trench with bloody flesh buried at the bottom.” 

Arya didn’t even mind when Sansa huddled closer until the two of them were pressed together. Their previous disagreements made no matter as they sought courage from one another.

It was only her, Sansa, and Bran still up, tucked together with wide eyes and bated breath as they listened to the legend of the Titan of Braavos. Baby Rickon was fast asleep, and everyone else had drifted off to settle down for the night, or engage in other activities.

Old Nan’s ancient voice sounded through the room: “And the Titan would feast, his teeth gnashing and his lips smacking, on the pretty pink flesh of highborn little girls.” 

Sansa let out a squeak and wrapped the fur tighter around her body.

“If I ever go to Braavos, I would fight the Titan off,” Arya declared bravely.

“The Titan might be from Braavos, but Maester Luwin said that the Titan is also the sigil for the Fingers. Only its stone face, though,” offered Bran.

Beside her, Sansa let out a shudder, and Arya patted her shoulder comfortingly. “I don’t like this story,” Sansa whispered.

As the voices hushed, and the click click click of Old Nan’s needles quietly filled the silence, the children took time to catch their breaths before feeling brave enough to make more requests.

“Can you tell us again about Jonquil and Florian?” Sansa pleaded, her voice soft as a sigh.

“Tell us about the Dance of Dragons,” Bran begged, already eager as he always was to hear the stories of the Dragonknights of old. He knew the tales well, they sounded sweetly in his ears like the tragic lyrics of a well written song. 

“No! I want to hear about Queen Nymeria and her ten thousand ships!” Arya looked as fierce as the warrior queen herself as she scowled at Bran’s mumbled protest.

“She’s a witch. I don’t want to hear about some old witch queen,” he grumbled.

“No she’s not!” Arya protested crossly. “She was as brave and fierce as any dragon prince. She led her warriors across the narrow sea. Under her guidance they went into battle and won. She conquered Dorne all by herself.” 

“Nu-uh. Her warriors did,” argued Bran.

“I think we have time to hear all of your favorite stories,” Old Nan’s croaky voice broke through the arguing. “Old stories are like old friends. You have to visit them from time to time."

Arya settled back down as her attention returned to Old Nan. The old woman was propped up in an oversized chair, her hands moving unhurriedly as she kept pace with the needlework in her lap.

 _“It helps keep her mind from going simple,”_ Sansa had whispered to Arya once.

Old Nan looked older than the castle itself. Every visible part of her was covered in wrinkles, and her body was shrunken. Sometimes Arya worried that she would keep shrinking until she simply disappeared. She was toothless, and although she had eyes, they were nearly useless, pale and covered with a thin layer of film. Her remaining white wisps of hair gleamed in the candle light, her pink scalp shone red under the soft glow, but she told the best stories, and plenty of Arya’s fondest adventures were born under the magic of Nan’s tales.

Old Nan launched into a retelling of the stories that the children had heard a thousand times, but still listened to eagerly as if it were the first time. 

Arya’s brows were furrowed together as she listened to Old Nan’s words.

Sansa's face took on a look of haunting beauty. Her blue eyes filled with tears of liquid crystal as they spilled down her porclean cheeks.

When the room fell silent, Sansa let out a sigh. “It’s just so sad,” she said, her voice mournful and sweet. “Handsome Prince Aemon with his moonlight hair, crying when he was forced to watch his own brother marry his fair maiden, the Princess Naerys. . . And the twins, Ser Arryk and Ser Erryk, to think that they cried as they fought each other and died. . .” Sansa’s bottom lip trembled delicately and more tears spilled down her pale cheeks.

Arya rolled her eyes as she pushed herself to her feet. “They shouldn’t have fought each other,” she said. “They should have protected one another. Like a wolf pack.” She turned and left the room. 

As she made her way down the darkened hall, Arya wished for the companionable presence of her wolf, but Nymeria was waiting in her bedchamber, mayhap already fast asleep.

It wasn’t that she feared the dark, not really, the crypts were dark too and she liked it just fine— to her, the darkened familiar halls of the Great Keep felt more like a comfortable blanket pressing down on her, than an unknown presence that harbored monsters and creatures from Old Nan’s stories —but Arya longed for Nymeria's warm fur and glowing yellow eyes all the same.

A big yawn escaped her as she opened the door to her chamber, but a tired smile broke across her face at the sight of the direwolf curled up on the fur, taking up the space at the foot of her bed. 

Arya made her way to her bed and carefully rubbed her hand down the wolf’s grey and white fur so as not to disturb it. She bent her head close to its ears, her head filled with tales of Nymeria of the Rhoyne. 

“You were named after the fiercest queen that ever lived. And one day, you and I will ride into battle and defeat our foes. We might even conquer our own land,” she whispered, imagining fighting like a warrior with her wolf by her side, eyes as yellow and bright as a Dornish sun on the hottest of days.

Nymeria didn’t provide a response, and Arya wrapped one arm around her wolf, curling her body around it before falling asleep.


	8. Sansa

Robb made first call, claiming the role of the Young Dragon much to Jon Snow's disappointment. King Daeron I of House Targaryen was one of their bastard brother's heroes, Sansa knew—Arya had gone on about it often enough when she compared her heroine Nymeria of the Rhoyne with Daeron Targaryen, the Young Dragon.

“I'll be Ser Ryam Redwyne,” Jon Snow said decidedly, raising his chin in a way that reminded Sansa of Arya, although his expression lacked Arya's stubbornly furrowed brows. While not his original choice, Ser Redwyne was no small feat to emulate, having been the greatest knight of his time; and Jon Snow pulled himself up to his full height, holding himself more proudly as Ser Ryam Redwyne, than he was ever allowed to do as Jon Snow, the bastard of Winterfell.

Theon and Arya quickly settled who they would play, and soon the game was underway. Robb made an impressive opponent as the Young Dragon, standing with his face fixed in a fierce scowl, looking big and broad. He held his wooden sword up threateningly and puffed out his chest as he channeled the authority that he would one day command as Lord of Winterfell.

“Not another step,” he warned as Jon Snow advanced towards him.

“Place down your sword, and you might yet make it to your fifteenth name day,” Jon Snow advised. 

Robb flushed red before leaping forward with his sword and Jon Snow’s lean body moved gracefully as he fended Robb off with his own practice sword.

For a second, Sansa wished that she could be in Arya’s place; playing the fair maiden while the boys fought gallantly over her. Except Arya wasn’t even playing her part properly. She insisted on wielding a stupid sword as if she were a knight or a hero. 

_Maidens don’t fight._

Arya scowled if any of the boys attempted to go easy on her, and a wild grin broke across her face when they swung at her with their wooden swords, unbiased and true, as if she were one of them rather than a small, skinny highborn daughter of a noble house— who had nine years of well breeding along with the example set by their lady mother —and really ought to have known better.

_“Why does Arya prefer to play fighting games with the boys?” Jeyne had once asked Sansa when they were littler._

_“I’m sure I don’t know why Arya does anything,” Sansa had replied, sounding crosser than she had intended, because she too had been upset by Arya's behavior._

But Arya hadn't changed one bit, no matter how often Septa Mordane scolded her or Mother instructed her. Sansa nearly rolled her eyes at Arya’s hopelessness, but settled for releasing a soft sigh before returning her attention to the poetry that she was working on.

When she looked up again, a game of monsters and maidens was underway, and Sansa held herself primly as she watched with a critical eye.

“Do you want to play?” Sansa heard Arya ask. Her sister went on before she could reply. “Theon and I will be the monsters, Jon and Robb are the knights, and you’ll be the helpless maiden fair.”

Sansa wasn’t sure that Arya's words were kindly meant, but she agreed and laid down her poetry, before she smoothed down her dress and went to join the others.

This time, Jon called out the role he would be playing first. “I'm Prince Aemon the Dragonknight,” Jon Snow was the first to say. But his eyes darted to Sansa and he quickly changed his mind.

“I'll be Aegon IV,” Robb responded, before catching sight of Jon shaking his head. They ended up switching roles.

Sansa barely opened her mouth before Arya spun towards her. “Sansa, you will be Naerys,” the younger girl informed—it was the only role that Sansa would have chosen anyway. “Instead of fighting each other over Naerys, Aemon and Aegon are going to fight us”—Arya pointed between her and Theon—“I like it better this way.” 

Sansa thought the tragedy of the original story was better, but she didn't say it out loud. 

“Fear not, sweet sister, I shall release you from these vile monsters that have kidnapped you against your will and locked you in a tower!” Robb cried valiantly. 

“Stay back if you value your lives!” Arya yelled.

“Do as my companion commands. She has developed quite the hunger for human flesh,” Theon warned.

“Monsters, grumkins, or Others, it makes no matter. Aemon and I shall defeat you all the same,” Jon Snow stated, voice filled with quiet intent.

Little words were needed as both sides drew their weapons. 

Hidden behind the barrel which served as her prison, excitement coursed through Sansa as she watched the clash of bodies and swords. If Sansa closed her eyes, she could convince herself that she was living out one of her favorite songs. A maiden, helpless and innocent, as her brave knight fought to rescue her.

When the clanging of the wooden swords had died down and the monsters were slain, her two heroes appeared to rescue her from her imprisonment. 

“You are safe now, sweet Naerys,” Robb declared, holding out his hand to help her up. “How do you fair? Were you harmed?”

Sansa stood up from behind the barrel where she had crouched, and carefully dusted off her dress. “It was very gallant of you to fight off those monsters, dearest Aemon,” she said, keeping her eyes demurely lowered. 

“Such kind words, my lady. But it would not have been possible without Aegon fighting at my side,” said Robb, and swept his arm back to include Jon.

Sansa glanced over at Jon Snow and gave him a nod of acknowledgment before turning her attention back to Robb.

Robb swooped down dramatically and plucked some flowers growing nearby, interlacing them before gently tucking them into her hair. “There,” he proclaimed, “delicate blossoms to match your fair beauty.”

Sansa blushed prettily and curtsied, leaning over to give her brother a kiss on the cheek, as a proper maiden from a song would do for her true knight.

She was having more fun than anticipated and would have asked if they could play another round of monsters and maidens, if they hadn't been interrupted by the commotion of Rickon running with the wolves in their direction.

The arrival of the youngest Stark brought chaos that immediately halted their fun. Rickon shrieked happily and scampered about their legs, not quite wanting to join the older kids, but still craving to be part of the action. ShaggyDog kept close to Rickon like a huge black shadow with eyes as green as King Aery’s rumored wildfire. 

Soon it was impossible to continue the game as six overexcited direwolves thrilled in the fun of chasing Rickon around, causing the toddler to nearly fall over in his haste and excitement to evade them.

He ignored the reaching arms of his brothers and sisters, his eyes shooting to the Greyjoy. Theon was the oldest and tallest, and Rickon quickly observed that fact, and his little feet made a mad dash between the legs of the dark haired youth. The wolves immediately gave chase, leaving Theon with little time to clear the way, and he ended up getting knocked down onto the dirt covered ground. 

A satisfied smirk slowly settled on Jon Snow’s face, while a howl of laughter sounded from Arya and Robb as the two doubled over at the sight of Theon sprawled among the dirt and grass. Sansa quickly spun away to hide the small smile that she couldn’t quite prevent.


	9. Arya

“Oomph!” Arya exclaimed as she tumbled and fell after losing her grip on the low hanging branch that she had been grasping.

Frustrated, she kicked the trunk of the sentinel tree, but that only served to cause stinging pain to shoot through her big toe. Hopping in pain and frustration, Arya bit down on her bottom lip to keep from crying out.

It was no use. She had been attempting for an hour now to climb up onto the armory wall and make her way to the roof like Bran did. He made it look so easy, shimmering up to the top like a squirrel. And how thrilling it all sounded when Bran described hopping from roof to roof— from the armory to the guards hall —all the way to the First Keep, swinging across from gargoyle to gargoyle, then stretching out his body for that final reach which made it possible to reach the broken tower. 

Arya had never entered the broken tower. No one had for hundreds of years. Only Bran.

 _“My favorite place is the broken tower,” Bran had confessed, bright eyed and flushed cheeks, “all the crows know me up there. And they love when I bring them food.”_

It made Arya surly to think that she would never experience any of this for herself.

All of her siblings seemed to possess a special distinction that she lacked. Robb was the heir. Jon was the bastard. Sansa was beautiful. Bran could climb _anything_. And Rickon was the baby.

 _I'm just_ me. _Arya Horseface._ The mocking nickname caused a burning in her throat and her mood only worsened when she spotted her older sister in the courtyard.

Sansa looked beautiful as she brushed Lady’s fur, singing sweetly about a lady fair as her thick auburn locks shone in the sun. Her sunlit ocean eyes were an enchantment on their own—just as vivid as Robb, Rickon, and Bran's, but twice as enthralling.

 _“When you are older, sweet one, many a man will drown in your eyes.”_ Arya could hear Mother's voice cooing in her mind even now, as she fuzzed over Sansa's gleaming mane.

Their lady mother would often spend what felt like hours, lovingly brushing the eldest Stark daughter's thick auburn hair, a shade lighter than her own. The brush would glide almost effortlessly through Sansa’s soft strands, and before Arya fell asleep, each tendril in her sister’s hair would be glowing like copper in the candle light. The thought caused dull resentment to run through Arya. 

_My ratty hair is not worth anyone’s time._

Turning away from Sansa, Arya headed towards the inner ward, letting her feet lead her until she came upon Bran shooting arrows with Theon, Jon, and Robb, while Rickon, the baby, sat nearby, laughing and clapping, ShaggyDog silent and watchful by his side. 

Bran was hopeless, Arya noted, as he consistently failed to hit the target. They were matched when playing swords, but she was sure that she could hit the target at least once when it came to archery. Eager to prove that she could best him in something after her failed attempt at climbing, Arya dashed forward, grabbing a bow.

Father’s laughter boomed from the wooden parapets above, and Arya glanced up eagerly. “Watch me!” she commanded, before letting the arrow fly. 

With a precision that shocked even her, the arrowhead impaled the target, sending her three brothers whirling around, surprise painting their features as their eyes landed on her.

Arya bowed mockingly and Bran threw his bow down with a frustrated growl as he gave chase, upset at having been out performed by a girl.

“Hah!” Arya cried joyfully as she evaded him. She may never climb like Bran, but she could at least hit the target once _and_ she was faster too.

She ran until Bran grew tired and gave up, his seven-year-old legs were still shorter than hers; Arya just didn't understand why they could climb better. Leaving Bran behind, she doubled back to the inner ward to watch her older brothers.

“Can you teach me?” Arya asked, going over to them.

“It seems like you're already better than the rest of us,” Jon declared, mussing her hair.

Arya made a face at him. “It was simply a lucky shot,” she admitted. 

“Well, make more lucky shots like that and you could fool everyone.”

“Maybe Theon can teach you one day if you wish it,” Robb suggested.

Arya’s face lit up. “For true?” she asked.

“Why not?” Robb asked. “It’s not like anyone can stop you.”

“I’ll be better than Bran at almost everything. I already am,” Arya declared. “No one can stop me from fighting just because I’m a girl. Or training in archery either. I’ll be as good as any of you.”

“If Lord Stark allows it, I can teach you how to shoot arrows as well as a Greyjoy,” Theon interjected. 

“I would like that,” Arya replied.

With a nod of his head, Theon returned to archery practice with her brothers, and Arya turned and hurried to find some children her age to pass the time with.

She found herself back near the sentinel tree, bypassing it this time as she made her way further past the surrounding ironwoods, oaks, and elms, mingled with some chestnuts and ash. Faint cries and happy shrieks echoed from the heart of the godswood, slightly smothered by the dense trees.

Deeper in the godswood, near the inky black pool, the children of Winterfell's servants were already at play, and Arya's feet picked up pace, silent on the ground even as she ran, until she stood before the ancient weirwood, the red of its leaves as deep and red as Tully hair, its face as hard as the North, its eyes weeping blood, or so Arya liked to tell herself. A slow smile curved across her face as she took in the sight before her. 

“Want to play?” a voice called out to her.

Arya slipped away from the heart tree. “Of course,” was her ready answer.


	10. Sansa

Sansa carefully chewed and swallowed her food, before daintily wiping at the corners of her mouth. Removing any unsightly residue that might have lingered.

They were gathered around the table with the septa, the lord and lady of Winterfell having opted to take supper in their lord father's solar.

“I do wish another singer will travel to Winterfell,” Sansa said. She remembered once, when she was around Bran's age, an old wrinkled man had housed in the castle for six moons. As insignificant as he had appeared, he possessed a voice of gold and his lyrics weaved the most magical tales of brave knights and fair maidens. By the time the wandering singer completed the last note in one of his songs, a stream of tears would soak Sansa's cheeks, pooling at her chin, and dripping onto her gown. Only when quiet hung over the hall in wake of the singer's beautiful renditions, would she spring from her seat, clapping fervently as her eyes shone brightly. “Please, more!” she would beg. 

Sansa had cried bitterly the day the singer left, and for a while, Winterfell had seemed a tad greyer, and— despite the hot springs pulsing through its walls —a tad colder.

“A singer might yet come. Don't lose hope, sweet sister,” Robb encouraged. 

Sansa favored him with a charming smile. “And if a singer doesn't come, will you bring one to me?” She was only japing, but Robb beamed brightly at her, his eyes twinkling with good humor as he went along.

“I will find the most revered singer and tie him up, carry him over my shoulder, then lay him at your feet,” he promised.

“I couldn't ask for a more valiant hero,” Sansa cooed.

A loud unladylike burp emitted from Arya's side of the table, causing several heads to swivel in her direction.

“Won’t you eat your vegetables?” Septa Mordane asked, taking note of the greens piled high on the young girl’s plate, and actively choosing not to engage Arya in another battle concerning her unrefined manners.

“I’d rather not. Nymeria would like them better anyway,” said Arya, holding her hand out for the wolf to swallow another bite of greens and any other displeasing food that she wasn’t fond of.

Jon Snow chuckled and Septa Mordane sent him a disapproving look. She didn’t find his presence at the table proper at all.

 _“Eating along with the trueborns. . . A bastard,”_ Sansa remembered Septa Mordance once exclaiming to Mother. It was a few years ago. Now the septa settled for ignoring Jon’s presence as much as possible.

“A shade more ladylike than threatening the table with a not so innocent dangling doll,” teased Robb. 

Arya once owned a doll that she carried around everywhere, and whenever Mother or Father or any of her older siblings tried to persuade her to take a bite of vegetables, she would swing the doll at them like a morningstar, warding of the offending spoon.

“The doll is not gone forever,” Arya quipped. “She's just waiting for the threat of unyielding spoons of vegetables and the such.”

“Maybe if you eat your vegetables, it will help you focus better. So you won't get so cross when you mess up on your stitches,” Sansa encouraged.

“I hate needlework,” Arya snapped, before remembering that the septa was sitting nearby. She clamped her mouth shut and fed more vegetables to Nymeria.

“The scarf that you made wasn't that awful,” said Sansa.

 _A lie that's kindly meant is not a_ true _lie._

“Septa Mordane said it was a disgrace.” Arya scowled.

Sansa smiled, her silvery voice flowing like honey to sweeten the tart words that escaped her lips. 

“You can't expect to get better at it if you spend more time acting like a little wildling than a lady.”

“I'd rather be a wildling than a lady,” Arya retorted, but she didn't look like she meant it. Sansa could tell that she was just being stubborn.

She couldn’t understand why Arya always insisted on being so stubborn and willful.

Their lady mother said, they were both blood of her blood. And their lord father said, even though they were as different as the sun and moon, the same blood flowed through both their hearts, and therefore they needed each other. But Sansa disagreed. It simply felt as if her and Arya were two strangers inhabiting the same castle rather than sisters.

She let out a sigh, attempting to reach out to her sister once more.

“I could help you. It's not hard at all,” Sansa carefully offered, “Beth has already improved tremendously.”

But rather than being accepted as a peace offering, her words seemed to serve as the needle that caused Arya to burst, her temper exploding as she slammed down her fork.

“I don't care about Beth's needling. Or Jeyne's giggling. Nor do I care for your stupid helpless maidens. You can marry a stupid prince if you want to, but _I'm_ going to practice playing swords, and I will practice shooting archery too. Jon said I'm good at it. And Robb said Theon could help me. Theon said he would if Father says yes.”

“That is enough, Arya!” Septa Mordane exclaimed, her thin lips disappearing in a frown.

Robb placed a hand on Arya's shoulder to calm her down, but she squirmed out from under his reach and stood up. “I'm done eating. May I be excused?” she stiffly asked the septa.

“You ought to attempt to behave like a lady for once and stop being so wild. All you ever do is shame us all.” The words rushed out before Sansa could stop them.

She felt something wet smack hard into her face and she shrieked as she leapt up from her chair. The blood orange that Arya had flung at her slid unceremoniously down her face and onto her dress, leaving a sticky trail in its wake.

“You're AWFUL!” Sansa cried into the abrupt silence, overcome with emotion; but Arya had already fled the room, Nymeria at her heels. Sansa dissolved into tears as Septa Mordane hurried over, her mouth hanging open in disbelief.

“My word!” The good septa was simply horrified over Arya’s appalling behavior. “Your lord father will hear about this! She will rue the day she brought such wild behavior into this castle wall! What would your lady mother say?”

Robb and Jon hurried over to her to attempt to help, but Sansa sidestepped them. Tears streaming down her face, she escaped the hall, blindly running up to her room. She was glad to find her bedchamber empty of the chambermaids that usually set up her bath after supper.

Temporarily forgetting that she was a lady, Sansa slammed the door as hard as she could, before yanking her dress off angrily. 

It was already ruined.

Another sob escaped her. It was just like Arya to ruin anything nice and pretty.


	11. Arya

After she had wiped away the stubborn tears that she couldn't hold back, and scowled until her head hurt, the guilt that she had attempted to keep at bay, started sneaking its way back in.

She supposed that she shouldn't have thrown the orange at Sansa. Her sister wasn't truly trying to be mean, although her words cut Arya all the same.

But she couldn't apologize right away on account of having been banished to her bedchamber, so that would have to happen on the morrow.

Father had been quite cross when she had met him in his solar, Arya remembered regretfully. _What were you thinking?_ he wanted to know. But she _hadn't_ been thinking, she had only felt fury in that moment when she had thrown her orange at Sansa. _The wolfsblood,_ she imagined. But wolves don't turn on their own.

Arya’s gaze shifted longingly to the heap of old clothes on which her wolf would normally sprawl, but Nymeria was currently gone. Mother had decided that Arya’s behavior had been too distasteful for her to even be allowed the comforting presence of her direwolf.

The young girl pursed her lips. If she had known that she wouldn’t even get to keep Nymeria with her, she might have tried a little harder to maintain a calm demeanor. Now she was forced to spend the rest of the day here, with naught to do save listen to the gentle rattle of the shutters as they were assailed by the north wind.

If it had been Sansa banished to her chamber, she would easily have found something to provide a respite from the boredom, but none of the indoor activities that her sister took joy in caught Arya’s fancy in the least.

It was a shame, she brooded, that the ability to climb well was a gift that Bran alone possessed. She could have climbed out of her window and sneaked to the rooftops. And instead of long dreadful hours sitting in her room, the hours would have flown by as she laughed and ran overhead. If Bran happened upon her, they could play swords with the sun gleaming down on his fiery hair and the world spread out below them. And by the time night settled over Winterfell, Arya would have been safely nestled in her bed, and everyone would remain none the wiser.

She sighed as she lay back in her bed. At least she could climb the highest walls of any of the towers in her dreams. And the morrow would arrive much quicker if she slept. With another sigh, her eyes fluttered shut.

Arya awoke to a new morn, which she greeted with a groan and a touch of reluctance. After suffering through a bath and the cleaning of her teeth, she impatiently dressed and hurried down to break her fast. The entire meal was an uncomfortable affair for Arya, as she felt disapproval radiating off of the septa; and Sansa—who had yet to forgive her—ignored her and remained unusually quiet and withdrawn until Arya was squirming in shame.

Once she finished eating and excused herself from the table, she found small activities to pass time with while she built up the courage to approach her sister.

It was about an hour later that she became aware of the hushed chatter of Jeyne and Beth in the courtyard, as they occasionally whispered and giggled into Sansa’s ears. With a gulp that was difficult to force down, Arya walked over to Sansa, prepared to ask the older girl’s pardon.

Her sister’s face was marble, smooth and impassive, her eyes like frozen lakes—the surface impenetrable making it difficult to discern what lay underneath. It was an unsettling version of the beautiful girl with a head full of songs, and Arya realized that she didn’t care much for this replica.

Her own stormy eyes reflected their surroundings, denying access to the emotions raging within as she faced the auburn haired girl. She fidgeted with a loose thread on her dress and studied her shoes for a while, before her bony shoulders squared and she lifted her head. The words that floated out of her mouth were rushed, and Arya paused and released a determined breath, before she repeated the words in a clearer manner. The youngest Stark daughter looked properly contrite for her previous behavior, and her words hung in the air after her mouth had shut, genuine and soft. 

Sansa ever the lady, sat up straight, head high and regal, her mask finally slipping away at the younger girl’s meek tone. The tension eased out of her shoulders, allowing them to settle as she forgave her sister for the humiliation that she had wrought.

“I won’t do it again,” Arya promised.

“Okay,” Sansa said doubtfully. Even Arya didn’t look as if she believed her own claim. She was a willful one, with a temper that was ferocious when set off.

With an awkward smile at one another, Arya turned and dashed away, while Sansa lowered her gaze to the unfinished scarf in her lap.

There were a bunch of children already gathered, including Bran, when Arya made her way deep into the godswood. She spotted Turnip the cook's boy, and Joseth's girls Bandy and Shyra, Palla the kennel girl, Cayn's boy Calon, and TomToo, Fat Tom’s son. Mycah the butcher’s boy and her dearest friend, had even been able to slip away to play, Arya discovered to her merriment.

The children huddled in a tight circle as they chewed over which game to play. After a few suggestions tossed back and forth, they narrowed down on one before slowly dispersing.

“Who goes first?” Arya asked, picking up a fallen stick. They had agreed to play lord of the crossing.

“I’ll be the lord of the crossing,” Bran volunteered, and Arya passed him the stick.

The game was played by having the lord of the crossing stand on a log that was laid across a pool. With a stick in one hand, he stood guard over the crossing and the other players attempted to gain permission to cross by answering a series of questions or putting together a speech about their intentions that may or may not be true. If they told a falsehood or swore an oath to the lord of the crossing, then they were bond to the oath, unless if they said ‘Mayhap’ and knocked the lord of the crossing into the water before he could knock them into it with his stick.

It was a fun game with equal parts splashing, arguing, hitting and shoving, and equal parts answering questions, making speeches, and strategizing. They all ended up muddy and soaked and Arya was having too much fun to spare a thought for how cross her lady mother and septa would be.

Some of the older boys drifted away once they grew bored, to play swords using broken branches and sticks, and Arya eagerly joined in, soon ending up in a heated swords play with Turnip.

Arya jumped up on top of a rock in order to gain a better advantage, and slashed savagely at the older boy. With a piercing crying, she leapt down, bracing herself as she slammed her weight into him. The surprise attack caused Turnip to stumble, and Arya used the opportunity to slash her stick across his thigh. He toppled backwards and into the black pool.

“Surrender, or lose your head!” Arya commanded, face red and her branch posed threateningly over the boy, ready to whack him again at the first sign of resistance.

He grumbled as he made his way out of the dark pool, his hands bare and weaponless as he raised them in surrender.

“You fought bravely, and for that I shall give you your life. But heed this warning. If you dare rebel again, your treason will be rewarded with the removal of your head.”

Turnip gave a nod of defeat and Arya flashed a quick toothy grin before spinning around to find another boy to conquer.


	12. Sansa

Sansa caught sight of her older brother walking alongside Jon Snow and Theon, along with some members of the Household, with Arya sticking close to the group like a faithful shadow. With a gentle pat to Lady's head and an order for her to stay put, Sansa made her way to her brother. “Robb, won't you play with me?” she asked sweetly. “You promised we could play a round of monsters-and-maidens.”

Robb sighed as he ran a hesistant hand through his dark red-brown curls. His words came out slowly as he thought over how to say them. “On the morrow,” he promised. “Right now we're accompanying some of the men to winter town.” 

“Can I come along?” Arya asked hopefully, inching closer to the group until she was able to squeeze herself between her brothers.

Robb and Jon looked at each other, silently communicating. Finally Robb shrugged a shoulder. “If you can keep up. And if you promise to heed our instructions.” 

“I can be quick,” Arya promised. “And I'll listen.”

“I will like to accompany you too,” Sansa said. Her request was met with looks of shock among her siblings.

“It will require riding,” Arya reminded. “You _hate_ riding.”

“I can tolerate some soreness.” The casual shrug that Sansa gave didn’t seem to convince her siblings, so she added, “It’s a little price to pay in exchange for some sweets.”

Robb had taken on a long suffering look at the thought of having to babysit his younger sisters on what was meant to be a fun outing. “Fine,” he sighed, shooting a dispirited look Theon’s way.

The small group was soon settled into their individual horses and headed towards the gatehouse, riding past Gage, the cook, as he headed into the kitchens, and a group of servant girls that had gathered to gossip at the washing well. It was the Hunters Gate that they were leaving through, Sansa realized to her dismay as the drawbridge was lowered. 

The group made their way under the portcullis and over the drawbridge, spilling out through the outer gates as it swung open. They rode out beneath the walls and into the wolfswood. The woods smelled of wild animals, and rotten leaves, the lingering smoke from old burnt out fires tickled Sansa’s nose and threatened to send her into a sneezing fit.

Arya let out a whoop beside her, excited at the opportunity to race her pony through the vast stretch of oaks and pines. She quickly turned to Robb and begged if she could ride to the river. 

Sansa glanced around, shuddering at the squirrels that darted by and the thin spider webs that were easy to miss until the light hit them just so. She wished that they had gone directly to winter town which was two miles back, tucked along the walls of Winterfell. It was still mostly deserted at this time of year, with the majority of villagers preferring to stay at their farms until the cold winds of winter rooted them out.

The happy yells of the rest of the group filled the air as they raced their horses, cutting through the trees at terrifying speeds.

“I bet if I wanted, I can survive on my own in these woods. I could patrol them, speeding through the trees and chasing away the bad guys. Imagine me running alongside the wolves with Nymeria at my side. Nymeria and I could lead them!” Arya’s high excited voice carried through the dense trunks and whispering leaves. “Do you think I can be an outlaw, like Wenda the White Fawn in the songs?" 

Robb and Jon Snow chuckled in amusement, one of their low replies eliciting a happy shout from Arya.

Although Sansa wasn’t as fond of horse riding, it soothed her to gently stroke her fingers through the mare’s mane as it kept at a steady trot. 

They stopped near the gushing stream which had announced its presence as they drew near with the unmistakable sound of rushing water. Robb and Jon delved into a debate concerning who had caught the most trouts when they last went fishing with Jory. Bran had gone too, Sansa remembered, he had chatted ceaselessly about it as his eyes lit up and his face flushed with pride and excitement.

Sansa climbed down from her mare and led the animal to the bank of the stream so it could drink alongside the other horses. The guardsmen stood watch as the boys waded into the high water, soaking their pants in the mid thigh foaming torrent. Arya would have gone in too if Sansa had not caught her shoulder and held her back. Her sister pouted but surprisingly complied, choosing to use the water break as an opportunity to hunt for wolves. 

Arya seemed to have exhausted her boundless energy by the time they headed back towards the winter town; she fell into step beside Sansa and released a wistful sigh. “If I could climb like Bran, I would never get bored.” 

Sansa couldn’t share the sentiment. She detested heights. Winterfell’s wooden walkways that rose high above the ground were the most she was willing to compromise on when it came to heights. And even those seemed too much at times. But it was were Father sometimes kept watch and their lady mother would join him at times.

It took a while before Sansa realized that a low argument had broken out behind her. She strained her ears until she could make out the tension coating her half brother’s voice and the amusement lacing through the Greyjoy ward’s reply.

“You’ll be buried in the lichyard with the servants,” Theon snickered.

“And you won’t be buried on Stark land at all,” Jon Snow returned, his eyes had hardened like chips of flint, irises gleaming under the Northern sun that accompanied them on their journey.

Arya stopped and turned, her uncertain gaze flickering between the two arguing boys. 

Jon noticed her attention and leveled a warning glare on the older youth. “Misspeak and I’ll warn you once. Misspeak in front of my little sister, and I won’t warn you at all.”

Theon gave a careless shrug, his smirk making light of Jon’s words, but he took care not to utter anything callous.

Sansa turned away from the two boys as she noticed the worried frown that had settled over Robb’s face. Walking slightly ahead, Sansa set a hand on Arya’s back and pushed her sister forward so that she could resume walking again. She knew that if she didn’t divert the girl’s attention, Arya would forget herself and plant herself right in the middle of Jon Snow and Theon’s argument.

The younger girl resisted at first, loathe to separate herself from her brothers, but Sansa was persistent until Arya finally began to reluctantly walk beside her, grumbling all the while.

After a lengthy silence and a long glance at the boys that were now walking calmly behind them, the younger girl resumed her outspoken nature as they ventured closer to the little town. 

Sansa and Arya found themselves back on their horses as they rode into the market square that resided near Winterfell’s walls, situated close to the main gate. It was still mostly deserted as Winter was yet to arrive. The group made their way down the muddy streets and Arya excitedly eyed the small log and undressed stone homes. A few of the homes lazily drifted smoke out of their chimneys.

There were town folks out and about, carrying out their daily duties, and Sansa watched as Robb donned his ‘Robb the Lord’ face and greeted the villagers as they bent their knees in respect.

“Sweet Kyra,” Theon suddenly called, his eyes trained on the Smoking Log. A serving girl paused as she entered the inn, turning to lock eyes with the Greyjoy, before her face blushed red and she quickly disappeared inside the inn, the door shutting behind her. Theon shot one last wistful look at the Smoking Log before his horse fell into step with the group as they moved through the market town.

Sansa had heard some of Winterfell’s male servants discussing it once. The Smoking Log was the local inn and alehouse. She wondered if that’s where Robb and them had originally planned to go before her and Arya requested to come along. 

They passed the well that was constructed in the center of the market square, and Arya broke away from her, leaping off of her pony and scampering towards the well.

“Arya!” Sansa yelled exasperated. She climbed down from her mare with the help of one of the guards and stood beside it impatiently.

Her sister ignored her as she leaned over to stare into the dark water below, holding her closed fist over the water and letting something drop. She returned to Sansa’s side shortly after. “I threw in a coin for good luck.” Arya beamed.

“You won't be able to buy as much sweets now,” Sansa reminded her as they approached a wooden stall selling goods.

The merchant boy immediately recognized them and his ears reddened as he fumbled around, rushing his words in his eagerness to please.

Sansa politely discouraged him from assisting her as she studied the sweets, carefully deciding which one was to her liking. She ended up buying a handful of goods, ensuring that she had enough to share with Bran and Rickon.

They arrived back at the Great Keep shortly before supper time, and Sansa stowed away all of her goods knowing it would be improper to eat them so close to supper.

Her lady mother announced while they ate at the table, that she had news for them, and Sansa instantly stilled, straightening in her seat as she eagerly awaited what her mother would reveal: There would be a feast in two moon's time at Winterfell, and all of the Northern lords were to attend with their families. 

In her excitement, Sansa found herself forgetting herself and being almost as much a nuisance as Arya, as she shadowed her lady mother after supper, skirts flurrying, and asking an endless array of questions.

Eventually her exasperated mother shooed her off to find a sensible activity to occupy her time and exhaust her boundless energy on before bed.

Face colored pink, Sansa slunk away, but her mood brightened as she found Jeyne and Beth just as excited as her and they passed the time in Sansa’s bedchamber, giggling and planning for the feast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming back from a MASSIVE writer’s block.
> 
> I am sorry for the multiple mistakes in this chapter. But I was inspired to write today and wanted to upload it quickly.


	13. Arya

“Needlework is finished for today,” Septa Mordane announced.

Arya threw her stitching down with a grateful sigh, jumping to her feet and stretching her limbs, before darting towards the door, anxious to make a swift escape. She had barely made it to the door before the septa’s voice cut through her dreams of freedom.

“Not so fast. You ladies are to report to the ballroom.”

Arya groaned, her shoulders slumping as she turned to face the septa. “Does that mean that I will have to _dance_?” She didn’t appear too pleased.

“Yes,” the septa replied sharply, her obvious displeasure causing her thin lips to retreat further. 

Arya started a mournful trail towards her doom, wondering all the while how she would ever survive these dancing lessons. She could hear the excited giggles of the other girls behind her, which only worsened her dread. Her mood lifted a little when she saw that her brothers had been confined to the same fate.

Jon placed a comforting arm around her skinny shoulders that were still slumped in defeat. “It’s alright, little sister. At least we have each other. We can dance together so no one else notices how awful that I dance,” he joked.

Arya’s grey eyes brightened a little. “You promise you won’t let anyone else dance with me?” she asked. 

A grin appeared across Robb’s face as he leaned closer to the two, “As awful as Jon’s dancing is to behold, I promise that you’ll dazzle even the sternest of critics if you stick with him as your partner.”

Arya’s grin was cut short as the dance instructor clapped her hands to draw the children’s attention. “It is very important for a lord to know how to approach a lady,” she said. “Before you can dance with a lady, you must first charm her. I will have the males demonstrate how they will speak to a well bred female in order to charm her into dancing.”

Robb volunteered to demonstrate his skills, and Jeyne and Beth swooned as he effortlessly charmed the dance instructor. Robb executed a flawless bow over her hand, before complimenting her beauty, and promising that one dance from her would leave him feeling as favored as a hero from a song.

The dance instructor shooed him away with a pleased smile on her lips and a girlish blush staining her cheeks, before turning to the other male students and informing them that that is how they should aspire to charm a well bred female: in a manner befitting of her highborn status. 

Jon turned to Arya with a twinkle in his grey eyes as he donned an exaggerated facade of a proper lord. “What’s your name, little lady?” he asked.

“Arya,” she said, giving him one of her sweetest smiles.

Jon slipped out of character to return her grin and Sansa rolled her eyes. “You have to give her a compliment when she tells you her name. Girls like that,” Sansa instructed all knowledgeable.

“Um,” Jon said, lost for words. “Nice to meet you.” He folded into a quick awkward bow.

“You should have said her name is pretty, or something gallant. And _then_ you bow,” Sansa corrected. “It’s more princely that way.” She patted his shoulder to soften her words.

Theon released an excessive sigh. “You have to work on your skills when charming a great lady.” The dark haired youth bowed dramatically in front of the girls. “Allow me to show you. I can see that Snow’s charming skills remain as poor as ever. Same as his dancing.”

Arya rolled her eyes on her half brother’s behalf, fiercely loyal as she settled a frown on Theon. “Jon isn’t that terrible,” she declared. “And by the time we finish these stupid dancing lessons, he’ll be even better than last time.”

In fact, by the time they finished learning the steps for the dance, Arya was afraid that her face had acquired the shade of a tomato. Repeating the instructor’s moves were bad enough, but now they’ll have to carry it out on their own! Dancing was even worse than needling Arya decided, and she was certain that she had already been scolded twice as much! 

It wasn’t her fault that she was awful at womanly arts. But everyone insisted on subjecting her to them. Now any moment the song would start playing and everything would get so much worse.

The first strings of music sounded and Arya bit down on her bottom lip as insecurity rushed in, only for Jon’s reassuring smile to chase it back out as she raised her eyes to meet his grey ones. _Jon will want me, even if no one else does._ The knowledge filled her with confidence and her posture became a little straighter.

She tried to do the steps as carefully as she could, but all she could focus on was the voice in her head reminding her not to stumble. The instructor tskked and told her that she was far too stiff and needed to loosen up a bit. “Ladies are meant to be graceful.”

Arya balled up her fists, vehemently wishing to leave the whole stupid dance behind in favor of cuddling with Nymeria.

“Here, I’ll show you,” Sansa said softly, coming over to her and taking her hands.

Arya offered a timid but grateful smile at her sister as she followed her careful instructions. When Sansa was being so sweet, it was easy to be enchanted by her beauty, as she swept across the room tall and regal, her slender figure moving gracefully to the music.

Sansa’s fine high cheekbones were highlighted by her gentle blush, and an easy smile stretched her lips. Her easy laughter was a melodious tinkering across the room, and even Jon was affected by her magic as she took the time to show him some of the steps. Practicing with him until he made some improvement.

Once Beth saw Sansa dancing with Jon, she was willing to overlook his bastard status and await eagerly for a turn with him, although it was Robb that she longed so wistfully to dance with.

* * * 

To Arya’s horror, they were forced to endure daily sessions of dance lessons along with suffering through fittings for new outfits. She found herself relieved when the day of the feast arrived, if only because the conclusion would bring an end to the madness that had arisen in Winterfell.

There were too many strangers residing within the castle walls, and Jon was shying away and making himself scarce. Arya just couldn’t wait until everything went back to normal. She tugged on the gown that she had been forced into—“The Others take this stupid dress,” Arya swore fiercely. “I wish I didn’t have to wear it.”—and made a quick escape to the godswood, hoping that she could acquire the peace needed to calm her mind, in the presence of the old gods, but Arya stopped short at the sight that greeted her.

Strangers in the godswood. Strange lords spilling out here and there as they knelt to pray. Arya turned and headed back the way she came, the tearing of her dress ringing in her ears as she stretched her legs further than the stiff fabric accommodated. 

There were unfamiliar boys laughing and playing sword in the training yard. Usually Arya enjoyed making new friends, but not when they had to see her in a stupid dress that she couldn’t run or breathe in. And not when they will witness her humiliation when she was forced to dance in front of a sea of faces. The thought made her heart thud frantically. And Arya ran faster, trying to find somewhere quiet and secluded to hide until she could calm the chaos that was raging in her head.

“Arya!”

The abruptness of her name being yelled caused her to stumble and fall. She gritted her teeth against the stinging in her hands and wondered how many people were staring at the spectacle that she made.

Lips compressed to hide their quivering, Arya stood up, her dress dirtied and torn and looked up into her sister’s horrified face.

Sansa believed that if Arya would devote more effort into behaving like a lady, then it would come naturally to her too. Sansa was too beautiful and perfect to understand. Everything just came easily to her, Arya thought, the familiar bitterness rising up in her. 

The only thing that she could do better than Sansa was ride a horse, and _worse_ , everyone thought she resembled one too. It were as if the gods were mocking her for her failure to ever compare to Sansa.

Arya bit her lip as her nose stung and her eyes burned. A stupid sniffle escaped without her permission.

Sansa sighed. “I will fix it,” she offered, taking her sister’s arm.

Arya allowed Sansa to lead her to the bedchamber. It was rare for her and Sansa to get along and even though they fought quite bitterly and frequently, Arya secretly treasured those fleeting moments when her and Sansa behaved like real siblings rather than two strangers forced to inhabit the same home. 

Sansa was kind and courteous as she patiently stitched Arya’s dress and even brushed the knots out of her hair without making fun of her once, and in return, Arya held herself still, all ladylike and proper, with her hands folded in her lap until Sansa announced that her hair had been brushed to her satisfaction.

“There,” Sansa said as she put away her sewing supplies and hairbrush. 

“Thank you,” Arya said, still keeping to her manners. Sansa nodded as a knock sounded at the door.

Jeyne stood on the other side, eyes shining as Sansa opened the door to grant her entrance. “It’s almost time for the feast!” Jeyne squealed. Her excitement bounced off of her and around the room, and Sansa squealed too as she gave her dress another quick fluffing out.

Jeyne also smoothed down her dress, and Arya noted that the excitement in her brown eyes, her carefully painted lips and piled curls, along with the pink flush on her cheeks all transformed the pretty girl into a near beauty. _She almost looks as enchanting today as Sansa does on a normal day,_ Arya thought.

There was another knock on the door, but this one was much sterner. The two older girls turned toward it expectantly, while the younger one stiffened in dread. Septa Mordane entered the room to escort the girls to the Great Hall, and Arya made a final attempt to avoid dancing at the feast by declaring loudly that she was rather ill. But it made no matter, the young girl's hand was grasped firmly by the septa and the trio were herded to the feast.

* * * 

Arya enjoyed the moments that didn’t involve dancing. Like the food and the beverages. Although she felt a little stiff sitting at the high table, having to hold herself like a proper lady before all the lords and ladies that crowded the large hall. But perhaps she would feel better relaxed after a sip of Father’s beer.

Sansa took a dainty sip from the tankard, the taste of the beer causing her to wince prettily. “Wine is ever so much finer,” she declared as she passed the tankard over into Arya’s eager hands. 

Arya sipped at the beer as Father watched her carefully to make sure that she didn’t have too much. The beer settled warmly in her stomach and she passed the tankard back to Father as she wiped at her mouth. “It’s good,” she remarked, although she wouldn’t object to some sweet Summerwine either.

“Can I get a small sip?” Bran inquired, upset at having been passed over.

Their lord father hesitated for a second before handing the tankard over to the small boy. Bran eagerly brought the tankard to his lips, and swallowed a larger gulp than he intended in his bid to prove that he was old enough for the drink. He instantly ended up in a coughing fit as bubbles escaped his nose. Rickon dissolved into laughter in his seat and clapped his hands, while Robb gave Bran a firm pat on the back until his coughing ceased. 

“Better?” their lord father asked, avoiding his wife’s glare.

“Better,” Bran agreed. A hiccup escaped him and he giggled.

“Perhaps some water?” their lady mother suggested, passing the clear liquid over to the boy.

He drank deeply until his hiccups were gone before shooting a sheepish smile at the others. “I guess I’ll wait a few more years.”

Sansa’s merriment escaped as a delicate musical peal even with the wine she had consumed. “Wine is finer,” she whispered to him.

When the time for dancing arriving, Arya made a feeble attempt to sneak away on false claims of needing to make water, but the beady eyes of Septa Mordane were trained on her, so with a deep breath, Arya headed to join the group of highborn girls waiting bashfully for a dance.

A great relief swept through her when Jon approached her after spending some time dancing with Alys Karstark. Arya had been lucky so far to not have been subjected to the humiliation of dancing with any young son of the Northern families that were present. Quickly taking Jon’s hand, she beamed a smile up at him as he led her to the dance floor.

Nearby a first son was approaching Sansa to ask her to her second dance. “My lady,” the young lord breathed. He gave a quick bow, looking red faced and flustered as he stammered out an awkward request for her hand in a dance. Sansa smiled sweetly, too well-bred to laugh in the face of his embarrassment and Arya turned away from the scene, just in time to keep herself from stumbling over a dance step.

“Why the sad face?” Jon’s dark eyes were shadowed with concern as they moved across the floor in the practiced dance that they had both struggled with. 

Arya wondered if she should tell him. What if he thought her silly? No, she decided. Jon would never make fun of me. 

“It makes no matter what dress I wear or how they do my hair. I’ll never be as beautiful as Sansa,” Arya disclosed, her ears heated up as her words trailed off, the short silence making her burn with humiliation.

They came to an abrupt stop as Jon stared at her intently, his face still as the inky black pool that lay in the godswood, and Arya tugged him until he reluctantly resumed the dance. “Sansa _does_ look radiant,” Jon acknowledged, “but you, little sister, you look perfect.” He sealed his words by giving her a little twirl, a smile finding his lips as her sullen look melted away.

Arya didn’t believe his words, but they made her feel better all the same, and she threw her skinny little arms around his neck and showered his face with kisses not caring how unladylike it might look to those around them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arthur’s Note: I was going to have Jon ask, “why the long face?”  
> And Arya reply, “because I’m a Stark.”  
> But this is not that kind of fiction. Lol
> 
> P.S. This chapter is so extra but I didn’t want to split it.
> 
> P.S.S. I totally skipped over the feast because I suck at detailing Northern gatherings.


	14. Sansa

Sansa awoke to the sight of white flakes falling outside of her window. After preparing herself for the new morn and breaking her fast with her family, she went out to one of the walkways to get a better view.

It was a beautiful summer’s snow in Winterfell. The flurries danced gently above her as she threw her hands up to the sky, her face turned up in wide eyed enchantment. The snowflakes landed on her nose and cheeks, soft as kisses, lingering for a few seconds before melting, and causing a soft giggle to escape her at the thrill of it all. 

As much as Sansa yearned to visit the south, the soft snow never failed to leave her breathless. Retreating back inside, Sansa made her way to her bedchamber and hurriedly dressed, eager to properly venture out into the snow. The snow crunched under her feet as she made her way across the courtyard, headed towards the glass gardens.

Sansa scooped up some flurries that had collected in her open palm and placed it in her mouth, the cold snow melted quickly on her tongue, the taste as pure as a fresh drink of ice water.

The pale Northern sun beamed upon the snow as she walked, transforming Winterfell’s Northern landscape from its usual mundane coloring of grey and brown, into an array of sparkling and glistening colors as the sun light caught on the layered pure white flakes draped over the tower roofs and tree branches, along with the blanketed expanse of land.

Sansa wished that the beauty of it could be immortalized in a pretty song, the magic of the moment captured by a singer’s golden voice. She knew that the pretty picture wouldn’t last long—the boiling underground springs likely to melt the snow away, aided by the warm weather that encompassed Winterfell and its surrounding areas— and wished to memorize the look of it all.

Sansa lowered herself onto the ground, lying flat on her back with her legs and arms spread out. She began moving her limbs about in an attempt to make a snow angel. She was pleased with how it turned out, and used her finger to trace a halo over the angel’s head. It didn’t take long before the falling snow began to fill in the indentation, slowly erasing the snow angel from view, and with one last look, Sansa headed towards the glass gardens.

The heat of the enclosed greenhouse instantly brought a red flush to her face, and the warm earthy smell of the glass gardens infused her nose. The snowy footprints that her shoes left on the floor instantly melted away, unable to withstand the high temperatures. 

It was beautiful in here, Sansa sighed as she looked around. The green and yellow glass panes colored the light that shone in, and the colorful sights of different produce, plants, and trees inspired a feeling of vitality. As she drew nearer to the fruits and flowers, the air became sweeter. Sansa quickly picked a few blackberries to eat later. She giggled as she imagined the look of disgust Arya would make if she strode in here and saw all of the vegetables that were almost ready to be plucked, soon to be piled onto her plate. 

A small smile was still on her face as she headed back to the Great Keep. Swallowing the last of the blackberries that she had daringly cleansed in the snow, Sansa made her way past the walkway between the Armory and Guards Hall. She glanced up at the sky that was still releasing fluffy flakes and stuck her tongue out again for another taste. 

A huge snowball broke apart as it made contact with her face, the falling pieces crumbling onto her tongue. As Sansa spit out the snow and brushed the remainder off of her face, she heard the unmistakable hoots of her younger brother. She walked closer until she could make out Bran’s little figure perched on top of the covered bridge that connected the Armory and the Great Keep. He was holding a large ball of compacted snow, and let the snowball fly in her direction when he noticed that she had spotted him. 

Sansa grinned as she lowered herself to the ground and built her own snowball to launch at him. But before it could set sail, Bran caught her with another snowball, this one larger than the last. She giggled as she held on to her snowball, preparing to throw it—until an unsuspected attack from behind knocked her soft weapon from her hand. 

“Hey!” Sansa yelled, whirling around as a tiny figure dashed away and disappeared into the Great Keep, a laughter that sounded suspiciously like Arya trailing after it. A smile made its way to Sansa’s face. The smile on her face turned a tad sweeter as she heard Bran’s tinkering laughter filled with a little boy’s joyful glee. He was still high up on top of the covered bridge, safe from her retaliation.

Another snowball ambushed her, causing Bran to hop about in victory, the snow that had collected in his auburn locks taking flight and fluttering about his head before drifting lazily to settle upon the flakes that had already collected on the roof of the covered bridge.

“Snowball fight!” Arya yelled, jumping out from the double doors of the Great Keep. She scooped up more snow as she headed her sister’s way and threw the gathered handful as Sansa turned to face her.

Sansa quickly swooped down to pick up snow and Arya took off running, heading through the doors of the covered bridge, and out the other side into the main courtyard. Sansa kept chase as Arya ran past the library tower and the washing well, uncaring of the startled looks that members of the household shot them.

Arya headed in the direction of the Bell Tower and Sansa pursued her, being careful not to drop the compacted snow in her hand as they ran in and out of the different courtyards. Arya’s laughter reached her ears as they ran through the stables and around the kitchen. The younger girl gave a whoop as she avoided Sansa’s reach, but Sansa was determined and her legs were longer, although Arya was faster. 

_I’m so close . . ._

And then Sansa felt herself falling, the snowball flying from her grip as the ground rushed up to meet her.

“Sansa!” Arya called, rushing over to her. “Are you alright?” Arya’s grey eyes were full of concern as she stared down at her sister, worry scrunching up her brows.

“I’m fine,” Sansa assured her as she pushed herself up and back onto her feet.

Arya’s worry morphed into a grin. “Good!” she declared. The snowball that she released hit Sansa smack in the face. She made to run off again but Sansa gave chase.

Her fierce sister was so much smaller, Sansa realized as she quickly caught up to the skinny little girl, grabbing her legs and causing her to tumble. She might have worried but they were both breathless with laughter, Arya’s face lit up with a wide grin as she attempted to wiggle out of Sansa’s grip. 

Jory appeared to investigate the commotion that they were causing, but he ended up laughing at their antics, while Bran sneaked up—his face red from running hard to catch up—and pelted them both with snowballs.

Sansa grinned in triumph before picking up as much snow as she could and dumping it onto Arya’s hair; making sure to rub the snow until it melted and water dripped from her sister’s brown locks and into her clothes.

“Hey!” Arya yelled in protest as she laughed. Jory helped the two of them up and advised all three kids to head to the kitchens for some hot drinks to warm up their cold fingers. Which they promptly did. The day turned even better when Sansa discovered that there were freshly baked lemon cakes and Gage allowed her to take several, which she shared with her siblings as they headed to the keep.

“This is my favorite day,” Arya declared, and it was . . . until Rickon and Shaggy sped excitedly towards them, what followed next was an audible crash as all four kids tumbled to the to the ground along with their drinks and lemon cakes. 

“Oh man,” Arya groaned as Sansa sighed.

“Rickon!” Bran hollered.

The toddler's only response was piercing happy shrieks of laughter as he scrambled to his feet and dashed away, Shaggydog chasing after him.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know how consistent I am going to be with this story. Just a forewarning.
> 
> FYI: For anyone that thinks otherwise, I do love Sansa. Ever so much ^_^
> 
>  **Arya's Journey:** https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j-P98fwr7zc
> 
>  **Sansa's Journey:** https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tHtEblwfFKg
> 
>  **P.S.** If the first few chapters seem off here's why: Chapter 1 was written as a one shot. This was originally an Arya POV one shot.
> 
> Chapter 2 and 3 I didn't really have any direction for where I wanted this to head.
> 
> Chapter 5 and 6 - when I started gaining interest in writing this story.


End file.
